And between these two stood this variable, sensuous, woman's nature, so capable both of good and evil. Rachel felt the burden of their virtues too much for her, together with the sting of her own secret knowledge.

In some moments, even, she rebelled against her own pa.s.sion. She had such a moment of revolt, in this moonlit dark, as her eyes took in the farm, the dim outlines of the farm buildings, the stacks, the new-ploughed furrows. Two months earlier her life had been absorbed in simple, clear, practical ambitions: how to improve her stock--how to grow another bushel to the acre--how and when to build a silo--whether to try electrification: a score of pleasant riddles that made the hours fly. And now this old fever had crept again into her blood, and everything had lost its savour. There were times when she bitterly, childishly, regretted it. She could almost have hated Ellesborough, because she loved him so well; and because of the terror, the ceaseless preoccupation that her love had begun to impose upon her.

Janet, watching her come in, saw that the radiance had departed, and that she crept about again like a tired woman. When, after nine o'clock, they were alone by the fire, again and again it was on the tip of Janet's tongue to say, "Tell me, who was d.i.c.k Tanner?" Then, in a sudden panic fear, lest the words should slip out, and bring something irreparable, she would get up, and make a restless pretence of some household work or other, only to sit down and begin the same inward debate once more. But she said nothing, and Rachel, too, was silent. She sat over the fire, apparently half asleep. Neither of them moved to go to bed till nearly midnight.

Then they kissed each other, and Janet raked out the fire.

"To-morrow!" she said, her eyes on the red glow of the embers, "_to-morrow_!--Will it be peace?"

And then Rachel remembered that all the civilized world was waiting for the words that would end the war. Somewhere in a French chateau there was a group of men conferring, and on the issue of this night depended the lives of thousands, and the peace of Europe.

Janet raised her clasped hands, and her plain, quiet face shone in the candle-light. She murmured something. Rachel guessed it was a prayer. But her own heart seemed dead and dumb. She could not free it from its load of personal care; she could not feel the patriotic emotion which had suddenly seized on Janet.

The morning broke grey and misty. The two labourers and the girls went about their work--raising their heads now and then to listen. And at eleven came the signal. Out rang the bells from Ips...o...b.. Church tower.

Labourers and girls threw down what they were doing, and gathered in the farm-yard round Janet and Rachel, who were waving flags on the steps of the farm-house. Then Rachel gave them all a holiday for the rest of the day, and very soon there was no one left on the farm premises but the two women and the bailiff.

"Don't stay, Hastings," said Rachel. "I'll get the horse and cart myself."

For it was market day at Millsborough, and peace or no peace, she had some business that must be done there.

"Oh, I've no call to go, Miss," said Hastings. "I'd rather stay and look after things."

His eyes met Janet's, and she nodded imperceptibly. She was relieved to think of Hastings--good, faithful, una.s.suming creature!--remaining on guard. The very desertion of the farm-houses on this great day might tempt marauders--especially that thief or madman who had been haunting their own premises. She hoped the police would not forget them either.

But Hastings' offer to stay till the girls came back from the Millsborough crowds and bands at about nine o'clock quite eased her mind.

And meanwhile she and Hastings, as had been agreed, kept their anxieties from Rachel.

Rachel went off at twelve o'clock in her khaki suit, driving a spirited young horse in a high cart, which was filled with farm produce. She was to take early dinner with some new friends, and then to go and look at a Jersey cow which Janet coveted, in a farm on the other side of Millsborough.

"Don't wait tea for me," she said to Janet, "I shall get some somewhere."

And then with a smile to them both she was off. Janet stood looking after her, lost in a painful uncertainty. "Can't you let it alone?" Lord Melbourne was accustomed to say suavely to those members of the Cabinet who brought him grievances or scandals that wanted seeing to. One half of Janet's mind was saying, "Can't you let it alone?" to the other half.

XI

The daylight had all gone when Rachel at last got into her cart in the yard of the Rose and Thistle at Millsborough and took the reins. But there was a faint moonrise struggling through the mist in which the little town and countryside were shrouded. And in the town, with its laughing and singing crowds, its bright shop windows, its moist, straggling flags, the mist, lying gently over the old houses, the moving people, the flashes and streamers of light, was extraordinarily romantic and beautifying.

Rachel drove slowly through the streets, delighting in the noise and excitement, in the sheer new pleasure of everything, the world--human beings--living--the end of the war. And out among the fields, and in the country road, the November sun was still beautiful; what with the pearly mist, and the purple shapes of the forest-covered hills. She had been much made of in Millsborough. People were anxious to talk to her, to invite her, to do business with her. Her engagement, she perceived, had made her doubly interesting. She was going to be prosperous, to succeed--and all the world smiled upon her.

So that her pulses were running fast as she reached Ips...o...b.., where, in the mild fog, a few groups were standing about, and a few doors were open. And now--there was home!--in front of her. And--Heavens! what had Janet done? Rachel pulled up the horse, and sat enchanted, looking at the farm. For there it lay, p.r.i.c.ked out in light, its old Georgian lines against the background of the hill. Every window had a light in it--every blind was drawn up--it was Janet's illumination for the peace. She had made of the old house "an insubstantial faery place," and Rachel laughed for pleasure.

Then she drove eagerly on into the dark tunnel of trees that lay between her and the house.

Suddenly a shape rushed out of the hedge into the light of the lamps, and a man laid a violent hand upon the horse's reins. The horse reared, and Rachel cried out,--

"What are you doing? Let go!"

But the man held the struggling horse, at once coercing and taming it, with an expert hand. A voice!--that sent a sudden horror through Rachel,--

"Sit where you are--hold tight!--don't be a fool!--he'll quiet down."

She sat paralysed; and, still holding the reins, though the trembling horse was now quiet, a man advanced into the light of the left-hand lamp.

"Well--do you know me?" he said quietly.

She struggled for breath and self-control.

"Let those reins alone!--what are you doing here?"

And s.n.a.t.c.hing up her whip, she bent forward. But he made a spring at it, s.n.a.t.c.hed it easily with a laugh, and broke it.

"You know you never were strong enough to get the better of me. Why do you try? Don't be an idiot. I want to make an appointment with you. You can't escape me. I've watched you for weeks. And see you alone, too.

Without that fellow you're engaged to."

Her pa.s.sion rose, in spite of her deadly fear.

"He'll take care of that," she said, "and the police. I'm not helpless now--as I used to be."

"Ah, but you'd better see me. I've got a great deal to say that concerns you. I suppose you've told that American chap a very pretty story about our divorce? Well, it took me a long time to get to the bottom of it myself. But now I'm--well, disillusioned!"

He came closer, close to the rail of the cart and the lamp, so that she saw clearly the haggard wreck of what once had been Roger Delane, and the evil triumph in his eyes.

"Who stayed the night alone, with d.i.c.k Tanner, on his place, when I was safely got rid of?" he said, in a low but clear voice. "And then who played the innocent--who did?"

"Liar!"

"Not at all. I've got some new evidence now--some quite fresh light on the scene--which may be useful to me. I want money. You seem to have a lot. And I want to be paid back a little of what I'm owed. Oh, I can hold my tongue, if it's made worth my while. I don't suppose you've told your American young man anything about d.i.c.k Tanner--eh?"

"Let go the horse!" she said fiercely, trying to recapture the reins.

"You've nothing to do with me any more."

"Haven't I? Oh, by all means tell your Yankee that I've waylaid you. I shouldn't at all object to an interview with him. In fact, I rather think of asking for it. But if you want to prevent it, you've got to do what you're told."

He came closer, and spoke with slow emphasis. "You've got to arrange a time--when I can see you--_alone?_ When shall it be?"

Silence. But far ahead there were sounds as of some one approaching.

Delane leapt on the step of the cart.

"This is Monday. Wednesday night--get rid of everybody! You can do it if you like. I shall come at nine. You've got to let me in."

Her white, quivering face was all his answer.

"Don't forget," he said, jumping down. "Good-night!"

And in a second he was gone, where, she could not tell.